


Live With That

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 03:03:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8604622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: But then Porthos breaks the kiss, rather abruptly, and says, “Hey.” (Coda fic for 3x01)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to tumblr for the prompt, "In the middle of a frenzied makeout session, soon after their return, Porthos takes back the 'we learned to live without you'. He never could. Aramis reassures him he won't ever have to."
> 
> Obviously a coda fic for early s3... not sure which ep, but obviously after the first.

Aramis’ sigh rattles out of him but he does not waver, only sinking further back against the wall and drawing Porthos in with him. Porthos moves closer, as he always does, slots into the spaces left empty so that the lines between their bodies melt. Aramis sighs again, kisses Porthos deeper, slower, drags his teeth across his lip, parts his mouth for the drag of Porthos’ tongue. 

Porthos’ hands are at his hips, then skirt up, skimming over his ribs and settling back at his waist. Aramis squirms, shifts closer, presses his leg between Porthos’ thighs and moves up. The pressure builds and Porthos’ makes an appreciative grunt, his hands flexing against Aramis’ sides. Aramis groans out, quietly, kisses him harder and deeper, faster. His hands lift, touch at his cheeks, the slope of his neck, slide back into his hair. His fingers curl. 

It feels good like this, so good – it’s been so long, too long. Porthos’ hair is longer than before, his beard scratchier, his body thicker and tighter with ill-spent muscles and hard battles won. When he presses up against Porthos, Aramis can feel the full weight and power of the man kissing him. He melts, slides against him, arches his back and just lets himself feel this, lets himself feel this forever. 

Porthos breaks the kiss only to kiss along Aramis’ jaw, down his neck. The burn of his stubble and beard makes Aramis shiver. He shudders when Porthos’ teeth drag down his neck. He swallows thickly, feels his pulse jump. He curls his fingers tighter in Porthos’ hair – doesn’t guide him along, but lets his hands follow wherever Porthos might go. 

When Porthos tips his head up and kisses him again, Aramis just moans and kisses him back, rocks his hips forward so he’s pressing harder up against Porthos, pointedly. He lets everything wash over him in waves – this longing, this love. It’s been so long. And now they can both have this again. Porthos’ mouth is soft against his, the pillowing kisses growing more heated, deeper. The taste and smell of Porthos all around him. His hands flexing in his hair. 

But then Porthos breaks the kiss, rather abruptly, and says, “Hey.”

It’s a soft sound, breathless, but Aramis still falters – worries, perhaps, that he has overstepped. He makes a soft, mournful groan when Porthos doesn’t return to kissing him and he opens his eyes to blink at him.

“What’s wrong?” Aramis asks, his fingertips skimming along Porthos’ jaw, feeling the burn of the stubble against his fingertips. He ghosts his thumb over Porthos’ bottom lip. 

But Porthos’ eyes are soft – and apologetic. “I didn’t mean any of that before.” 

“What, kissing me until I can’t breathe?” Aramis asks, thinking back to several minutes ago – to Porthos pushing him against the wall, growling out that promise, and Aramis kissing him mid-sentence before the promise could be completed. Aramis gives him a wry smile, aiming for levity. “I’m afraid it’s a little late for that, my friend.” 

But Porthos doesn’t chuckle, doesn’t rise to the bait of the joke. Instead, he looks at Aramis quite seriously when he says, “When I said we learned to live without you.” 

Now Aramis’ breath is stolen away – and for an entirely different reason. It skitters out of him, halted. His chest swells. 

“Porthos,” he says, unsure what else to say. 

“I never could,” Porthos confesses. He does not explain further, does not need to explain. Aramis can remember that moment in the monastery, the way Porthos acted – the hurt, the fear to hope. 

“I know,” Aramis answers, knows as he knew when first hearing it – knew that it couldn’t be true, as painful as that thought was, hoping it couldn’t be true. He moves his hand to cup Porthos’ cheek. Porthos breathes out and leans into the touch, his hand lifting to curl gently around Aramis’ wrist, to keep him tethered there. 

Aramis leans in, then – and kisses him again. Slower this time, but firm – and no less felt. He kisses him slow and deep, lets his body absorb into Porthos’, lets himself fall – completely – into his orbit. Gravity thus sustained, he melts into Porthos. Porthos curls his free arm around him and anchors him close. He grips Aramis’ wrist tight. Aramis doesn’t draw his hand away. 

When they finally settle and part, breathing hard and rattled, Porthos tips his head forward and their foreheads press together. Aramis breathes out, shaky, his hands cupping Porthos’ cheeks, one thumb fanning out over the familiar curve of Porthos’ scar. Comfort in these little moments, in how easily he can remember all of this – even after years spent, his body remembers each movement, remembers how this feels. 

“I’m afraid,” Aramis whispers against Porthos’ mouth, “you’re stuck with me now. You’ll never have to learn that. Never again.” 

Porthos’ smile is a quiet, pained little sight – hoping, daring to hope. Terrified of a future neither of them can predict, that neither of them can really prepare for. But he does nod, his breath fluttering out against Aramis’ mouth.

“I can live with that,” he tells Aramis. He smiles at him, tentative, and it lights up his entire face slowly – from the inside out. 

Aramis leans in and kisses him again.


End file.
